


One Toke Over The Line

by maaaaa



Category: The Sentinel (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:33:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23634646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maaaaa/pseuds/maaaaa
Kudos: 10





	One Toke Over The Line

Sweet Jesus.

Blair tried unsuccessfully to insert the key into the lock. It kept slipping right on past the incredibly tiny slot. And it didn’t help that the keyhole kept shifting and wiggling. Or that his friend Mick insisted on trying to snatch the key away from him, causing him to bat at the six or eight extra hands and throwing his aim off even more.

The exercise in futility was cut off at the knees as the door suddenly swung open from the inside. Blair lurched into Jim, slamming into his midsection with about as much force as a wet noodle, and started sliding toward the floor seemingly due to the aforementioned knees being cut off.

Jim fisted a shirtful of Blair and hefted him upward one-handed, pinning him in place against the doorjamb. He scowled at Mick from around the bobbing head of curls.

“Detective Ellison?” Mick asked in that tone of voice that conveyed one is stating the obvious. “Blair said you weren’t home.”

“I wasn’t. I am now. What the hell?” Jim answered as his eyes darted between his wobbly partner and Mick.

“I’m the designa---,” Mick replied limply as he started backing away. “I’m just making sure, but I can see you, I’ll just be going now,” he stammered as he turned and beat a hasty retreat.

Jim pulled Blair into the loft with both hands, kicking the door shut. He tracked Mick’s departure with his hearing, just as he’d tracked the duo’s ascent a few minutes earlier.

After returning home early from what was supposed to be an all night stakeout, Jim was just about to crawl into bed when he’d heard the street door on Prospect bang open. Blair’s distinctive drunk as a skunk giggles echoed upward, along with Mick’s valiant attempt to hush them.

Okay, yeah, Jim recalled as he trotted back down the stairs, Blair’d told him about the end of semester blowout. And now, apparently, the kid was pleasantly inebriated. Hell, the kid was entitled to let-loose now and then, deserved it even, what with the whirligig life he led. Jim could accept that, could deal with the laughing jags and the shit-faced pontificating and morning-after fallout. That’s what friends were for.

Jim shook his head, scrubbed at his face to wake up fully, and veered into the kitchen to start a pot of strong coffee, ready and willing to take on the role of nursemaid to a tipsy Blair.

But as he listened to Mick and Blair, his senses took on a mind of their own and employed the piggybacking trick Blair had taught him.

The sweet, pungent, unmistakable smell of pot wafted upward ahead of the bumbling, stumbling pair.

And now that he had the little shit in his hold, he could smell it clearly. It enveloped Blair; it was embedded in his hair and in his clothes. It left a scent-trail from the door to living room, where they now stood.

“Sandburg, you’re high,” Jim stated harshly as he shoved Blair down onto the couch.

Blair looked up at Jim, blinking rapidly. He pushed tendrils of hair out of his eyes and smiled lopsidedly, though in his mind it was a full-wattage grin. He slid sideways, coming to a stop as his shoulder hit the arm of the couch. He tilted his head and attempted a light-hearted wave.

“Hiya, Jim,” he said, mistaking Jim’s accusation for a greeting. “I thought you went out for steak?”

Jim crossed his arms and glowered at Blair with his most intimidating glower. “You’re stoned,” he clarified through gritted teeth.

Blair’s smile faded and his eyes rounded as he blustered a denial. “I’m not either!”

Jim ignored the protest. “You come into my loft, our home, stinking of reefer---,”

“Reefer?” Blair spluttered, chuckling uncontrollably. He clutched his side and pointed at Jim. “Hey, whoa, Ozzie, reefer?”

“Sandburg,” Jim warned menacingly. “You are so over the line here, Junior. No, wait, that’s not quite right, is it? Damn, you’re floating high as a kite so far above the line you can’t even see it.”

“Jim, Jim my man, Jim,” Blair chanted as he tried to right himself to a sitting position. “There was grass, I mean reefer,” he amended with a snort, “at the par-tay. Sure, you betcha. But come on man, man, it’s me,” he obfuscated lamely, “I know the line, I know where the line is, I know who drew the freakin’ line.” He schooled his face into innocent blankness. “I’d be a damn shtewpid ass to cross it,” he chastised himself, slurring his words and nodding sorrowfully.

“Christ, Chief,” Jim whispered. He sat down next to Blair and maneuvered him so that he finally achieved that coveted uprightness. He slung an arm over Blair’s shoulder and sighed as the top of Blair’s head slumped onto his upper chest and anchored itself under his chin.

“One toke, Jim, I swear,” Blair confessed with a trembling intake of breath. “Just one.”

Jim nodded, making shushing noises as he rubbed Blair’s shoulder.

Blair shuddered and leaned into Jim. He started to say something but the buzz he’d had was fading and Jim’s strong arm held promise of things better left for the morning.

Sweet Jesus.


End file.
